


Harry Potter and the Ceaseless Shadow

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friendship/Love, Gen, Horror, Humor, Mystery, Realistic, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 12:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens to a Muggle in a Wizard's world? Nothing great, I can assure you. Especially in a Wizard's world on the brink of war with a newly resurrected and seriously pissed off Dark Lord. Especially in a Wizard's world where the only friend you have is a boy named Harry Potter. I guess I'm just unnaturally lucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Potter and the Ceaseless Shadow

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

**_"_ ** _Sometimes, late at night, I dig a hole in the back yard, just to keep them guessing..._ **_"_  
**

**_NOSY NEIGHBORS_ **

* * *

****

**I** t was when the cookie cutter houses first came into view that the first signs of panic really started to kick in. This was seriously not cool. I didn’t sign up to live in a community filled with gossipy soccer—or I suppose I’d better learn to call it football if anyone was to understand what I was talking about—moms, and HOA freaks. Screw turning over a new leaf, I couldn’t deal with this. It just wasn’t me. As we turned down several streets—the perfectly identical houses almost starting to remind me eerily of something from out of _A Wrinkle in Time_ —I nearly got the urge to cry, feeling the heat buildup behind my eyes in full anticipation to do so. Ah, teenage angst. But I guess it _was_ actually a legitimate issue to be concerned about.

I was leaving my beloved America behind and setting down roots in a much smaller country; the UK, to be exact. Sure, we spoke the same language, more or less, but that still didn’t change the fact that I steadily continued to feel like an alien from outer space. Another thing that didn’t help was that I was already depressed enough to begin with without having to abandon all my ‘friends.’ Don’t worry, it wasn’t like I was being abused, or the parental situation was anything south of the normal amount of bullshit I had to put up with. It was genetic, apparently, and probably had a lot to do with the fact that I was fifteen—like I said before. Angst is sort of written with all capital letters in the job description—not to mention angry at the world for existing.

And now this: A boring, normal house in a boring, normal neighborhood. Sure, maybe I sounded ungrateful. For instance, I’m sure several starving homeless people would _love_ to have a boring, normal house in a boring, normal neighborhood. So maybe I was ungrateful. So what? I was unhappy, and I wanted to let the world know that _very well_ by glaring at it through thickly lined, staring green eyes—or in this case…through borderline horror filled ones. I’d just seen someone measuring the length of their lawn with a yardstick… _Dear god_ , I wanted to scream it to the heavens, _where the hell am I?_

“Don’t look so excited,” Mom sent me the usual cynical, amused look from the front passenger seat, “you might burst a blood vessel.”

“Thanks,” I replied with the same amount of sarcasm, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

“Don’t worry,” my step dad decided to chime in teasingly, “we’ll let you pick out your own room and everything. Then you can keep the lights off and fill it with all the sorts of dark, creepy stuff you like. You don’t even have to come out.”

“We’ll check periodically to make sure you’re still alive and not starving yourself though,” Mom finished with a grin.

I sent them both an evil look. “You both know that teenage suicide is on the rise, don’t you? You should seriously consider your contributions to it.”

“Ohh, poor _baby_ ,” Mom turned in her seat and simpered patronizingly. “Do we need to get you someone to talk to? ... _Again_?”

My glare turned deadly, and I stared at her deliberately for a long moment in silence before grating out a firm, “ _No_.”

“ _Okay_ then,” she raised both her hands to the side in difference, “just being a concerned parent here.”

“You’ve done a bang-up job so far haven’t you?” I muttered scathingly before returning to stare broodingly out the window once more.

“Hey. No being mean to the pregnant lady,” Jonah ordered, turning down another street.

“Sir, yes, sir…” I grumbled, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.

Jonah was an ex-marine turned Merc—and a damn good one at that. It wasn’t surprising that he got job offers from all over the world—especially in the middle east as of late—but what I _didn’t_ expect was for my mom to follow him. This was all his fault. I mean, sure, if he took the job, we’d be set for life, but if he didn’t we’d still be okay. Ugh...I’m not one to turn down opportunity when I see it, but still—we were doing _okay_. I guess the whole pregnancy thing was a big deal. To tell the truth, I was still slightly nauseated by the whole aspect of it…

“Oh, and, by the way?” He said, “I lied about you being able to stay in your room all the time. You’ve got to make sure and look out for your mom while I’m gone.”

I rolled my eyes. “Shall I fetch my spear and stand guard by her door at night?”

She snorted at that, as if the very prospect of me acting as a protector was laughable.

“No, but let’s just say you and I are going to get a lot more acquainted with each other in the next few weeks, Aims.” he finished ominously with the hated nickname, apparently not feeling the need to elaborate.

I was about to question him punitively about the subject when we finally pulled up into the driveway of yet _another_ identical house, and I was distracted by the welling pit of despair building up somewhere near my stomach cavity. We were here. The fact that this was irreversible was slowly being cemented into place, and I felt that if I took one step into the building I’d burst into flames like a vampire in the sun… So, with this lovely imagery in mind it was that I lingered behind by the car for a little longer than I should have, examining my surroundings with a bewildered sort of apprehension.

There was a single digit nailed up by the door, proclaiming the building as Number Five, and as I looked up the street at the tall street label, I was just able to make out the words Privet Dr. through my slightly smudged, square glasses. _Huh,_ I thought with a very unamused snort, _Number Five Privet Drive. Poet, didn’t know it._ That noted, I looked around at the other houses, and realized only the yards were different, with the exception of the grass length. Speaking of which, Surry seemed to be in a bit of a dry season, and each of the perfectly manicured lawns were looking a little...well...dead. It seemed to fit the situation.

Succumbing to the inevitable, I was just about to mope into the house with the hopes of it being less swelteringly hot in there when I heard a racket coming from the house across the street.

“HARRY POTTER!!”

I stared, transfixed, as a tall, gangly, black-haired boy in clothes that looked six sizes too big for him dive-bombed out a freaking _window_ to get away from someone’s grabbing, beefy hands, hit the ground at a roll, and then took off running across the lawn, then down the street, and out of sight. I watched him go with slight fascination, and, wondering what he could be making such a concentrated effort to get away from, I turned my gaze back to the window to see a slightly—and when I say slightly, I use this term generously—obese, furious looking man with a twitching black mustache staring back at me with something akin to horror. I raised my hand in an unsure wave, but all I got in return were the curtains shut abruptly in my face...well, not literally in my face, but the message was still very clear.

For some reason, the whole entire occurrence brought a smirk to my face, and the former doom and gloom I was feeling disappeared almost instantly. This caused me to become suspicious of myself because when I was in this much of a bad mood there was usually nothing that could bring me out of it unless...but no...it couldn’t be that this place had actually become _interesting_ , could it? _Well_ , I could only think to myself in astonishment, _that certainly didn’t take long_. It almost made me disappointed in myself. If my legendary black aura temper tantrums began to become so fickle, I’d start losing my hard earned reputation for being my mom’s little hardheaded brat. On the bright side—my grimdark smirk stretched wider at the thought—I had a grudging feeling that I might start to like it here...and, the first item on my to-do list?

Investigate this Mr. Potter.

This task, however, proved to be quite difficult, seeing as he was just about as elusive as a rainbow farting unicorn. I had absolutely nothing better to do with my time, so I’d taken to staring out the window behind my computer desk whilst writing songs of my darkest miseries to all my adoring fans on the internet. It was what I liked to call my ‘Potter Spotter’ vigil, going along with the whole rhyming theme this street had to it. Every time the boy seemingly escaped from the Dursley family—as I’d learned they were called—I’d strap on my shoes and discretely try to follow him to wherever it was that he went. Now, why didn’t I just go up to the door and ask after him? Well, one, that was just awkward. More awkward than stalking someone? Well...let’s not get into that. Two, the fat man frightened me. That is all. Well, and then there was the wife, which was a whole other batch of crazy…

Petunia Dursley was a nice woman; a little too bony, and maybe she needed to tone it down on the stepford wife routine, and maybe I was a little concerned that the blueberry pie she brought over as a welcome gift might be laced with something, and her smile was just a little bit too fake and—okay, let’s face it, I lied. She was a class A slander spreader and she and my mom got off on the wrong foot almost immediately.

“It was so nice of you to...stop by.” Mom poured the woman tea as we stared at each other across the round kitchen table—she taking in my black, gothy clothes and dark makeup with something like alarm, and I, giving her my best I’m-being-forced-to-be-here-so-don’t-even-try-initiating-conversation expression through half lidded, bored-to-death eyes.

I was promised pie. And that was the _only_ reason I had come downstairs at all, thank you very much.

Anyway, I found the action of my mom pouring tea inherently odd. First of all, my mom was not a tea person in the slightest—which was practically unheard of in the good old UK, so, wanting to fit in, she’d tried to find a kind she liked. She still hadn’t succeeded in this endeavor. So, with me being the only proud tea drinker in the house, we’d stalked up on my favorite which was a rather exotic brand of chocolate mint. And, again, since I was the only one who drank it, I’d become a bit possessive of my slightly more expensive tea. This woman was drinking said tea and I was not happy about it in the least.

So, when mom moved on to pour tea into my glass, I found this odd for another reason—mom didn’t pour things for people. Sure, she cooked dinner because she liked to cook, but when it came time to eat it, her usual response when I sat down at the dinner table was a look and a question, ‘Well? It’s not just going to grow legs walk over there to you. Are you going to help yourself, or do you need me to feed you too?’ And sure, maybe she liked to put on appearances for guests, but I knew from experience with my old room simultaneously serving as her office, she was quite the slob at heart. I couldn’t talk, of course, since I was worse, but still...It was odd seeing a fellow slob acting like an Obsessive Compulsive housewife.

Petunia averted her eyes from my dark stare and her tone seemed forced even to me when she spoke, “We were so pleased when we realized you had a daughter, Mrs. Valentine. We have a son around her age. He attends Smeltings Boys’ Academy, and we’d love for him to have some...” She eyed my clothes again nervously,”...variety amongst his friends.”

But something about what she’d said had attracted my attention and I immediately broke my hardheaded vow of silence with, “Is your son Harry Potter?”

Petunia suddenly looked mortified and went slightly pale. “Good lord, no. That boy has been trouble ever since my sister had him dropped on our doorstep.”

“So he’s your nephew?” Mom joined in, following the conversation, since I’d informed her of the strange event that had taken place earlier in the day. She had that cunning look of contemplation on her face. She had a knack at picking up things from a conversation that I couldn’t...but I was getting better at it.

“Unfortunately…” she sighed dramatically, “We’ve fed him, clothed him, taken him in out of the goodness of our hearts, but even going so far as to have him admitted at St. Brutus’ Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, there’s been no change in his behavior in the slightest.” She shook her head sadly. “My sister-in-law says it’s got something to do with the genes…”

“Is your sister-in-law a geneticist?” I asked smartly.

Petunia blinked at me. “Why, no… But I—”

“You’ll have to excuse Amy.” Mom forced a smile. “She gets into these inconsolable moods… There’s really nothing for it but to ignore them.”

I sent her a withering look. “Hello? Sitting right here?” I waved for good measure.

Petunia went right on as if I weren’t, “Oh yes, I know just what you mean. My Dudley gets them too. It must just be that age. Usually a new video game or two will cheer him right up.”

Mom blinked several times at this, then chuckled darkly. "Oh, I'm sure it would cheer Amy up too...but since I'm the 'evil life ruiner,' I'm just going to let her suffer."

I _glowered_ at her.

Petunia seemed uncertain as to whether to laugh, or look scandalized. Either way, she evidently didn't think Mom's 'little joke' was funny.

And that was when the screaming started. It came from outside where Petunia's husband Vernon had stopped to talk manly man conversation with Jonah, who was washing his beloved Cadillac in the front drive. Now, it’s not that I didn’t like Jonah...it’s just that he was a very hard person to like. Well, actually that wasn’t true. He was funny as hell, intelligent, charismatic, and made friends with people rather easily, but had a tendency to rub some the wrong way with his exuberant, eccentric personality—including me. This is the man—and he was a _big_ man at that—who once dressed in Reno 911 hot pants for Halloween because he said he liked to go for the shock value. This is the man who once pulled his socks up to his knees and his gym shorts up to his chest like Urkel at one of Mom’s work walk-a-thons, burst out of the donsjon covered in sweat from his run, then deliberately sprinted towards her in front of all her colleagues, vaulting over a chain link fence, flailing his arms and shouting at the top of his lungs ‘ _HEY HUNNIE!_ ’ And I could go on and on—it only gets worse. Honestly, I still have no idea why Mom agreed to marry him...but to each their own, I suppose.

Beyond the crazy stuff, he had a certain ‘presence’ and way of doing things that sort of suffocated me, not to mention he was a bit of a neat freak, and we’ve already established that I am an unrepentant slob. And it wasn’t just me either. Jonah’s personal identity was just...astronomically _huge_...and some people either didn’t know what to do with it, or felt threatened by it. For me, it was a mixture of the two. For Vernon? Well, I think we could safely assume the latter.

As we would eventually learn over the course of our residence in Little Whinging, Mr. Dursley had a tendency to complain about things, and was as close-minded as you could get. Naturally, the two got into an argument about politics, and Jonah—finally fed up with the man—took the spray nozzle of his hose and switched from hosing off his car, to hosing off Mr. Dursley. He later played it off as a joke, saying Vernon needed to ‘cool his head,’ but the man and his wife were both fuming with dislike.

“Congratulations.” I awarded them as the couple stormed off towards their dwelling. “You’ve just made enemies with everyone in the neighborhood.”

“Why do you say that?” Jonah questioned and Mom gave me a thoughtful look

I simply pointed after Petunia Dursley’s line of pursuit, heading over towards a neighbor’s house, and sending a snide look over her shoulder at ours as she ducked into the copy. “She’s going to tell her friends all about what’s making her upset, and probably ‘exaggerate’ extensively about it. Come on, this is grade-school stuff, you guys. Way to make a first—” But I was interrupted in reprimanding my parents by the sudden reappearance of Harry Potter, who stopped dead at the sight of his soaking wet uncle stomping back into the house, and then took in the form of Jonah, still wielding his trusty hosepipe, then to Mom and her pregnant belly, and then, finally our eyes met for a second. I noticed they were the same color as mine, if not a touch more vibrant; I was slightly jealous. He looked back to where his uncle had just disappeared into the house, obviously putting two and two together, and I swear, I almost saw him grin.

But then there was a harsh cry of “ _Boy!_ ” and, with a flinch, it appeared he recognized he was being summoned. The amusement fled from his face almost instantly—so much so that I almost didn’t believe I’d seen it at all—and nearly quicker than I could follow, he hunched his shoulders and slunk out of sight with the kind of stealth that takes _years_ to master.

“Well…” Jonah was still eying the house Petunia had reported to and shrugged noncommittally, “that escalated quickly.” Mom and I both sent him identical looks of disgust and stalked off into the house. I thought I heard him mutter a curse that sounded suspiciously like ‘ _Women_...’ under his breath.

But I was still occupied with my latest fixation and that was the mystery of Harry Potter. Was he really some trouble maker delinquent that Mrs. Dursley had made him out to be. My intuition was telling me not to trust her, but on the other hand, where had that crazy ass stealth come from? It seemed Mr. Potter was used to sneaking around in places where he shouldn’t necessarily be. He also seemed to be adept at shaking off pursuers, because every time I tried to figure out where it was he was going, I always ended up getting lost and heading back home disappointed.

And so it was that I sat perched at my silent vigil, nearly nodding off as the heat of the summer seeped into the house and into my brain, making me sleepy. It was only the intervention of Inigo, hopping up on my keyboard that startled me out of my daze, and I twitched in surprise.

He blinked at me with bright green eyes, “Meow,” then butted his head against mine, asking for attention.

Sighing, I caved and gave him a scratch under his chin—his favorite spot. Inigo Montoya was white with black spots—like a dairy cow—in his short, fluffy fur, and was a bit of a goofball. Named after a hero from one of my favorite childhood books— _The Princess Bride_ for those of you who didn’t get the reference—Inigo played the part well. And, after receiving his payment in bellyrubs, he went to go hop on my bed, rolling onto his back in a ray of sunlight and lying there on my sheets—which he would no doubt shed all over—with his limbs lolling up in the air ridiculously. He soon started snoring. I shook my head in exasperation. He was getting a little bit odd in his old age.

Distracted by the goofy cat, I nearly missed the departure of Potter, but I just caught him out of the corner of my eye, and no sooner had I done so did I bolt out of the room, grabbing my boots as I went, and attempted to pull them on even as I hopped on one foot in my haste to hurry after the mystery boy.

Mom sent me a knowing look over her shoulder from where she was busy doing dishes. “Harry Potter, again?”

“What’s it to ya?” I replied automatically, to which she rolled her teal blue eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’d like to know if you’ll be back in time to eat before Jonah finishes the job for you?” She replied in a seemingly pleasant tone, “Or, maybe I’m just concerned about your unhealthy obsession with a boy who’s supposed to be enrolled in a juvenile rehabilitation center?”

I rolled my eyes in return. “Since when did something like that ever stop _you_?”

“Hey.” She sent me guarded look. “Watch it.”

I pointed to something behind her. “Why don’t _you_ watch it? If you don’t, the sink is going to overflow.”

When she was distracted, I used it as my chance to escape, pulling the last laces of my boots tight, and sprinting out the door. I was just able to catch sight of him disappearing around the corner down towards Magnolia Crescent. So maybe stalking was a bit of an unhealthy hobby. I could understand the concern for that, but who was she to talk about Potter when my biological father—jailed at least twice, to my knowledge—was probably about ten times worse? Besides, I didn’t even _know_ Potter. I was just curious. Was that so horrible? And besides, there was pretty much nothing half as interesting anywhere on privet drive. I was bored out of my everloving mind. So what if I had a little summer side project? What could it hurt? With my luck, Potter was probably just some anxiety freak with subtle klepto issues. Strangely, I was okay with that. Even if it was a bust, at least I’d have fun on my vain pursuit of adventure while it lasted.

Simultaneously, it served as a way to get away from Jonah, who’d taken to dragging me with him to his newly found boxing gym. That ‘quality time’ he said we’d be spending with each other? Yeah. I couldn’t quite recall a time I’d ever been more humiliated in my entire existence. Not only could I hardly throw a punch to save my life, but my muscles were frail, weak, squeamish little things, and after one workout I wanted to go cry and nurse my sore body back to health in a safe, dark place. Yeah, I hadn’t been in shape since I played briefly on a volleyball team when I was ten. That didn’t work out so great. Since then, I’d grown progressively reclusive and retreated deeper and deeper into my room, blinds drawn, where no sun could penetrate my fortress of solitude. Jonah called it ‘The Secret Lair of the Bat Creature.’ In any case, if it came down to a choice of chasing after Potter—which, by definition, was infuriatingly frustrating—and sucumbing to Jonah’s version of ‘bonding’...well, it’s not really much of a choice, is it?

Rounding the corner of Magnolia Crescent, I felt my heart speed up in anticipation, because I _knew_ this way led to a dead end. Potter may have known the neighborhood a hell of a lot better than I did, but there comes a certain level of experience gained when constantly stalking an experienced person—my gamer speak rearing its ugly head—he must've been off _his_ game that day. But, when I sprinted around yet another corner—

It was impossible. How on _earth_ could he have escaped when I _heard his footsteps right in front of me?_ Not to mention, _dead end!_ It was a freaking dead end! How do you wiggle your way out of that?? The blonde bimbos in horror movies didn’t! Although, in his defense, Potter was not a blonde, nor did I believe that he was a bimbo, per say, but I’d been wrong about things of that nature before... In utter exasperation at my latest defeat I threw my hands up into the air and let out a roar of frustration, actually stomping my boot into ground like those silly Saturday morning cartoon characters. And, feeling this outlet for my anger wasn’t quite enough, I spied a nearby rock. Summoning all of my pent up frustration, all my grief at having to leave my friends, my country, my grandma, my cousins, my aunt, my uncle, all the shame and indignation of having been reduced to stalking some poor boy in order to get my kicks, and oh, _god_ , all the fucking, teenage _angst_ , I jerked my leg back and _kicked_ the damn thing...straight through somebody’s window…

“...Oh _fuck_.”

I cursed, staring blankly at the shattered glass for a split second, half in horror, and half in mortification, but then the shrieking started, and that’s about the point I turned tail and dived into one of the bushes lining the alleyway between the two houses...only it seemed that it was already occupied, and in my haste to hide, I’d ended up landing right on top of the person in a tangled mass of body parts. Now there were two of us cursing. In the end though, there was the sound of a door slamming, footsteps, and we both fell silent and still, ceasing the struggle to separate ourselves in the face of potential discovery. I hardly dared to breathe as a furious homeowner shouted bloodchilling threats and obscenities into the quickly fading daylight, and I cringed as the heavy footsteps drew nearer, screwing my eyes shut tight in anticipation of being discovered...but then they turned around, cursing as they did so and stomped back into the house.

It was then that the boy shifted beneath me, and, jumping to my feet, I muttered, even more embarrassed than I had been to accidentally break the window, “Oh, god, I am _so_ sorry about—” but then I recognized the messy haired boy dusting off his baggy clothes disgruntledly in the dimming light, and then blurted out, “Harry Potter?”

He eyed me irritably from over his glasses—which had slipped halfway down his nose—then pushed passed me and practically stomped off down the street. When I sauntered off in the same direction though, he whirled around and exploded, “Why d’you keep _following_ me?!”

“Umm…” I felt guilty, but I also felt the need to point out the obvious. “You _do_ realize I live directly across the street from you, right? I assume _that’s_ where you were headed?”

He was smarter than that though. “ _All week_? It isn’t the first time. Why are you following me? Who sent you?”

“Who _sent_ me?” Well now, _that_ was new. “What do you mean, ‘ _who sent me_?’ I just wanted to say ‘ _hi_!’”

His face suddenly went through several different emotions at once—a slight pinking of his cheeks, embarrassment, shaking of the head, bemusement, confusion, uh, what the— “Er...who exactly _are_ you again?”

Feeling a bit embarrassed myself—as I should… Bad, stalker, Amy, _bad_ —I duly remembered my manners, stuck out my hand, and intoned, “Amy Smith, from Number Five. I just moved here from the U.S. Nice to meet you.”

With visible hesitation, he took my hand and wobbled it a little. “Er...yeah. I assume you already know who I am…”

“Yeah,” I confirmed. Duh. Stalker. Get with the program. “I hear your uncle yelling your name a lot. You must really piss him off.”

He shrugged slightly. “Yeah. Mainly everything about me pisses him off, but so do a lot of other things as well. I’m just especially unlucky in that respect I s’pose...” he trailed off uncertainly, as if wondering if he had said too much. But then he seemed to notice the time and cursed, “Blast it, I’m late for Dudley!” and began walking very quickly in the direction of home.

Speeding up to match his pace I questioned, “Late for... _what?_ Isn’t Dudley that moran you live with? You’re cousins, right?”

He sent me a look. “You’re very…” he paused for a moment, as if searching for a politer term, “... _direct_ , aren’t you? Is that an American thing?”

“Um...not exactly…” It was more of an Amy thing. “Sorry…?”

“Don’t be,” he replied curtly, “It’s the truth. Why bother sugarcoating it?”

I grinned. Finally, someone with sense! “Exactly! You’ve got the picture!” When he didn’t respond, I went on with a _bit_ more tact, “So, um...I’ve been wondering...do you _really_ go to a criminal institution for lost causes?” I said a _bit_. Not a _lot_.

“Yup.” he answered automatically, not really paying attention to the conversation, “That’s the one.”

“...Why?”

He glanced at me with a strange expression as if no one had ever asked him this question before. “...I do bad things.”

I furrowed my brow. “Like _what?_ ” followed up by a skeptical, “No offense—don’t mean to walk all over your fragile, juvenile delinquent ego, or anything—but you honestly don’t seem like a bad person to me.”

He shrugged again, the corner of his lip pulling up into an ironic sort of half-smile. “You don’t have to be a bad person to do bad things, you know...”

I let out a huff of annoyance at the evasive answer, but I knew how to pick my battles, and I knew that this one would be a loser. Instead, I just struggled to match his pace, almost jogging to keep up, and asked him, “Well, why are you in such a hurry anyway?”

He rolled his eyes. “If I get home later than Dudley, a tongue lashing will be the least of my worries...”

“What, do they beat you, or something?” I wouldn’t put it past them.

“Not usually, no...” He sent me a punitive look. “You ask too many questions.”

“I’m a naturally curious person,” I defended.

He shook his head, and I think I caught the brief undertones of an idiom muttered under his breath having to do with a dead cat.

“So…here’s the thing,” I finally breached the topic, “I know this is going to sound weird, but bear with me, okay?”

He sent me another look and replied dryly, “Believe me...I can handle ‘weird.’”

“I sort of have this...sixth sense, when it comes to people,” I explained. “Don’t ask me how it works, or where it comes from, but somehow...I can just _tell_ if someone is a weirdo. Right off the bat, soon as I look at ‘em.” I continued with, “Sort of like a metal detector—like those things they use at the airports? The proddy, pokey thingies that make funny noises? Yeah, it’s like I’ve got one built into my head.” I cleared my throat awkwardly, at his arched brow. “Um, anyway, it sort of went off like _crazy_ when I first saw you… Uh, not that that’s a bad thing!” I waved my hands frantically, as if to ward off any offense to my essentially calling him a weirdo. “Like you said about not having to be a bad person to do bad things, you know? You don’t have to be a bad person to be a weirdo. And I like weirdoes anyway, so, basically—whatI’msayingisthatIllikeyou.” I said all this very quickly without pausing for breath.

He stopped walking, and gave me a very long look as if deciding whether or not to be offended, or to start laughing. In the end, he decided upon the latter, and shook his head. “ _You’re_ the ‘weirdo.’ You’ve been following me around, all this time, just to tell me _that_?”

I crossed my arms petulantly. “Yes! And so what? You should be honored!”

He laughed again.

"I'm serious!" I insisted. "I don't follow every shmuck that shows up on my radar, and I generally do not _like_ human beings as a species. Come on, even I can recognize an opportunity when I see it!"

He arched another dark brow at me, amused. "And just what sort of opportunity are you proposing, Amy from Number Five?"

Smirking, I stuck out my hand in proposition. “What if I told you I could make your little Dursley problem all just...go away?”

The amusement fled from his face in an instant, and turned to careful consideration. After a moment, with his eyes rapt on mine, he told me, “...I’m listening.”

And so it was, five minutes later, I had succeeded in convincing Petunia Dursley that I had gotten lost, and Harry had kindly helped me find my way back home. Mr. Dursley, however, was not so convinced, though he seemed agreeable enough when I politely requested that Harry stay at my house for dinner. I may have been a brash and rude person at the core, but I was also a very convincing actress when it came to being around other people’s guardians. Parents loved me.

It helped that both the husband and wife of Number Four frankly appeared relieved that they did not have to share the same supper table with their nephew, and evidently, it seemed that though Petunia had taken a liking to spreading slander about my mother—which pissed me off quite a bit, I found, when I was not doing so myself—she had clearly come to the conclusion that I was a wretchedly deprived child who did not get nearly enough video games and obviously pitied me to have been born into the other woman’s household. Or so Harry said.

And so, to my surprise—and slight disgust—she took a motherly tone with me and conceded, “Have him for as long as you like, Dear. And...don’t ever be afraid to ask for help. We can call people for you.”

Harry seemed to be having trouble trying not to burst out in a fit of laughter.

“Uhh...sure Mrs. Dursley.” I had to make a concentrated effort to sound polite and not shake my head in bemusement at her. “I’ll get right to that.” And as we slipped away across the street, I sent a look at the boy and growled, “Not a word. I don’t want to hear you speak.”

He sent me an innocent glance in return. “I wasn’t going to. Though I have to say, I can’t believe you actually pulled that off.”

I rolled my eyes. “Ah, ye of little faith… Don’t underestimate my many talents. We’re not out of the woods just yet...”

When mom opened the door, she looked beyond furious. Her long, dirty blonde hair was out of place, and her facial expression was irate. Her nails also looked like she had been biting them.

But when she spoke she sounded completely composed. Serious. Deadly. “Do you have _any_ idea how late you are? I sent Jonah out looking for you. He’s probably—” but by then she had noticed the tall, lanky boy behind me and raised a brow.

With that, I fed her the same lie I gave to Petunia Dursley. “I got lost. Harry helped me get back. Would you mind if he stayed for dinner?”

She looked about as convinced of the lie as Mr. Dursley had, but refrained from calling me out on it, casting a curious look over at the rumored delinquent, then shrugged. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to have a few less leftovers than usual... Come on in.” I didn’t know her motives, but she seemed to be testing a theory...

Immediately, it was as if a switch had gone off in Harry’s brain (like mine had at the Dursley’s) and he was suddenly in polite mode. “Thank you very much for having me, Mrs. Valentine—”

She waved him off as we followed her into the kitchen. “Just call me Ms. Josey.”

Her full name was Joscelene; she hated it because you could never find it on those personalized friendship bracelet things at the mall so I made her one out of alphabet letters when I was a kid. It was one of the rare times I saw her smile. A real smile—not a sarcastic one, or a cynical one like usual. Ironically, it was probably what caused my own name to have deliberately been chosen for its ordinariness, and I hated it just about as much as she hated her uncommon one for exactly the opposite reason. Funny how things work out like that, eh?

As soon as we entered the kitchen, Mom strode over to the refrigerator, extracted the jug of milk, removed the cap, and then took a long swig of it right in front of us. My jaw dropped and I shook my head, mystified. And I thought _I_ was the bigger slob.

Scandalized, I exclaimed, “ _Mom!_ ” I glanced at Harry with embarrassment for a split second to garner if he was as disgusted as I was. He actually looked like he was about to break out into grin. Still. “Seriously?? Not. Cool.”

She put down the milk jug and eyed me as if I were jamming her style. “Seriously? I already licked everything while making the chili, so you’re going to get my germs anyway. It’s not going to kill you.”

Again, my jaw dropped. It was at this statement that Jonah walked through the front door, and exclaimed, “Mmm, Hunnie germs! Can’t wait,” then he stopped and looked at me, “Where the hell have _you_ been? Oh,” and took in the sight of Harry, “‘Potter Stalker’ on patrol again?”

“It’s _not_ stalking!” I retorted with distress, though part of me wasn’t too confident in the defense, as I myself was the one who had coined the phrase ‘Potter Stalker’ in the first place. I turned to Harry hurriedly to reinforce my denial, “It’s _not_!”

He looked like he was about to laugh again, but blissfully allowed, “Right. I’ll just take your word for it, then.”

Mom looked at all three of us and then pointed to the crockpot on the countertop. “Well? Do you need an invitation, or are you just going to stand there all night?”

And with that, plates and bowls were doled out, and food was fetched in a buffet line protocol—the usual. Mom never really set the table, and in this case, we sort of had to shove business papers with coffee rings on them and other work stuff out of the way since Jonah and Mom were both using the kitchen as an improvised cluttered office while the real thing was still being unpacked. It was nothing unusual for me, but Jonah glared at the mess with that neat freak look in his eye that threatened to explode into a flurry of violent cleaning. I knew to duck out of the way when that happened, but he thankfully appeared to remain just on the verge, and focused on his chili.

Despite Mom’s claim of having slobbered all over the tasting spoon, it was really quite good. I piled up grated cheese, crushed crackers, and sour cream on mine, and stirred it all up into a spicy mass of my own creation: Chili con Queso y Crema Agria. Mmm. Along with that, there were tiny red potatoes, baked to perfection in garlic and rosemary. Mrs. Dursley could say whatever she wanted about my mother, but the truth stood that she was an _excellent_ cook, even with the slobbish disposition.

“So,” Jonah pushed right ahead to the meat and potatoes of that night’s conversation without hesitation, “what’s the story with you and the Dursleys?”

Harry put his spoon down with an uncomfortable look on his face, and glanced at me as if to say, ‘A little help here?’ but he found none, so started awkwardly, “Well, er...it’s a bit of a long story, Sir…” He then proceeded to explain about how his parents died in a car crash, and that the Dursleys just didn’t like him very much. But it all seemed a little...I don’t know, unemotional? Kind of like a rehearsed speech.

Evidently, Mom felt the same way, and when he finished, she hummed thoughtfully, “Well, if you want to know what I think…” her teal blue eyes flashed as she declared, “I’d say that you, Harry James Potter...are a _liar_.”

I watched the boy lower his eyes in shame, and, feeling oddly protective, I muttered a harsh, “ _Mom!_ ”

But she just went on, inattentive to my admonishments, “Don’t think I can’t tell. I have my own little liar to look after and another one on the way, so it’s not hard to figure it out any more.” She paused thoughtfully as she sized up the disconcerted, fidgeting boy calculatingly with her whip-sharp eyes.

“Sorry…” He started, but Mom cut him off before he could begin.

“It’s not to say you don’t have a good reason for it.” The corner of her lip turned up into a lopsided smile. “Not all lies have to be bad ones. I think you’re a good boy, Harry, with a lot of problems on your shoulders. If you can’t talk about them, that’s fine, but know that you’re welcome here. You’re probably the first friend Amy’s made since we arrived in London. And Amy isn’t one for making friends.” She aimed a smirk at me, and added mischievously, “Not that she makes it easy.”

“You’re talking about me like I’m not here again...” I grumbled, narrowing my eyes at her.

Harry seemed like he didn’t know what to say at first, and looked around the table at all of us, sincerity in his voice, “I...thanks. That really means a lot, actually.” He sent me a look. “Though I’m not sure I’m the best person to have as a friend at the moment...”

I crossed my arms over my chest, and replied dryly, “I’ll take what I can get. She’s right. I’m not big on the whole ‘friendship’ thing. Let’s not make a huge deal out of it. Just be here tomorrow around noon if you want to be, and we’ll see where it goes from there. Sound like a plan?”

“Not before we go to the gym,” Jonah interjected, “You _are_ getting into shape before I leave. No ‘if,’ ‘and’s,’ or ‘but’s.’” He sent a flippant look at Harry, “You can come too.”

“Er, sure. Sounds great.” He seemed genuinely enthusiastic.

I sent them both horrified looks.

The next day, after being yelled at by the Irish boxing trainer, and drilled to the point of wanting to die, I gasped out, “I hate you both.”

Harry, who had done much better than I expected—due to being surprisingly good at dodging, and quick as a cheetah—sent me a cheeky grin. “That’s not something you should say to a _friend_ , is it, Amy?”

I glowered at him. “Remember how I said I wasn’t big on the whole ‘friendship’ thing? It’s because I _hate_ all my friends...and have the intermittent desire to set all their houses on fire.”

“Well, you can set my house on fire if you want,” he told me with very dry humor in his voice, “Just wait until I get my things and lock all the Dursleys in their rooms first.”

I couldn’t help but let out a snort at the cruel imagery of the unpleasant family banging on their windows and screaming for help, playing along and suggesting, “We should come up with codenames—you can be Steve Urkel and I’ll be Velma Dinkly—and a signal of some sort—like a bizarre bird call.” I let out a bark of laughter, at the look on his face. “Or maybe I’ll see if I can scrounge up some walkie-talkies. I think my mom just bought some baby monitors. Those should work, right?”

“...I’m going to pretend to ignore the fact the two of you are blatantly plotting arson in broad daylight.” Jonah shook his head.

“Would you rather we do it in the dead of night?” Was my quick rejoinder.

“ _Yes_ ,” He emphasized, “if it means you’ll get off your lazy _ass_ and start hauling it. Show me your uppercut!”

Later, as Harry showed me a play park in the neighborhood that looked slightly vandalized we both sat on the swings and I complained as he concentrated on an old daily paper he’d filched out of a trash can, “I am _never_ going to be subjected to that again.”

He sent me a look over the brim of his paper. “I think you’re just being dramatic.”

“Easy for you to say,” I shot back. “You move so fast you don’t even get hit. How do you do that anyway?”

He shrugged, returning to scanning the paper for god knows what. “Years of being a human punching bag. You eventually learn to _duck_...”

I stared at him dryly. “You’ve had a _lovely_ childhood.”

He let out a snort of laughter, even though it really wasn’t funny. “You have _no_ idea.”

I swung my legs back and forward absently as I reminisced vaguely, “All my bullies targeted were my emotions…” And then a dark memory surfaced, and I winced. “I once had a second grade teacher who would take my desk and sit it away from everyone else’s. I can’t remember why... Something to do with her not wanting everyone else to catch my mental problems, like they were contagious...” I stared at a cloud that looked like a butterfly. “I _do_ remember working super- _duper_ hard on an essay once though, and when I got up to present it, I hardly said one word before she told me to sit back down and deliberately instructed everyone to _laugh_ at me. She also took my things and put them in a box that she told me I could have back at the end of the year, but instead, she had them all destroyed and gave me a _nasty_ smile when I asked for them back… Of course, I was too dimwitted back then,” I stopped, then corrected myself, “or maybe I was too _afraid_ to ask anyone for help...” I paused thoughtfully, “In my opinion, I don’t think people like that should be let _near_ six-year-olds, much less be expected to _teach_ them things… And that’s just the adults. Kids can be much, _much_ crueler than that...” I furrowed my brow in thought. “Makes you wonder if it’s their parents that make them that way, or if we’re all just cruel by nature…”

In his defense, there wasn’t much you could say to that. It was a bit depressing to think about really, and I can remember being extremely grateful for his intervention and putting down the paper he’d been obsessing over. “Er...I have a teacher like that as well, actually. Used to hate my dad back when they were in school together, and apparently that kind of thing carries down the generations…” He avoided my eyes, and added awkwardly, “And I accidentally turned my teacher’s wig blue once in Primary School…”

I snorted and stared at him with a sort of glimmering glee. “How do you _accidentally_ turn someone’s wig blue? Like, how does that even _happen_?”

“Dunno…” He shrugged again. “‘magic,’ I s’pose...” He hesitated for a second before telling me, “I accidentally set a boa constrictor on Dudley at the zoo when I was ten too, come to think of it...”

It seemed Harry had a lot of these ‘accidents’ and didn’t have much of a sound explanation for any of them. And, even though the stories about his school, and his friends, and his evil chemistry teacher Professor Snape were extremely interesting, I had a feeling he was leaving _huge_ bits and pieces out… Mom was right, Harry _was_ a liar, but like her, I also got the feeling he was doing it for a good reason. Even still, it didn’t make me any less insatiably curious as I had been about him since the moment he first popped up on my weird-o-meter. Harry Potter was a mystery within a mystery within a rather odd shaped box. But remember what I said about choosing your battles? This was one I was going to lose. I think I knew that from the start, actually. Didn’t stop me from trying to pry open Pandora’s Box with a crowbar though, as was my way.

Usually, if I had a question I wanted answered, I’d turn to the internet. It was a fast growing thing, the internet, you know? It’s one of the main reasons I’d begged Mom for a computer the last Christmas. Then again...if I really wanted the information I could just _beat_ someone over the head with the damn thing and _make_ them tell me. But...when it came to Harry, this became a bit of a problem.

You see, Harry was one of those rare human beings on the infernal planet we call Earth that actually seemed to possess a shred of _decency_. The more I got to know him, the more I found that he was actually a genuinely _kind_ person. Therefore, beating the answers I wanted out of him just seemed inherently...well, _wrong_. And, putting aside the fact that we’ve already established he’s almost impossible to catch and hold still long enough to beat answers out of in the _first place_ , the fact still stood that I’d just feel horrible if I actually managed to _do_ _it_. Cons outweighed the pros. You want the short answer? It ain’t worth it.

But still, the cursed curiosity persisted. It wasn’t until a week later that the answer nearly hit me in the face like a flying brick in the form of Inigo head-butting me, and I almost slapped myself for being so stupid. I think we’ve already established that making and keeping friends wasn’t my strong suit—Inigo was probably the only one who wasn’t a total douche or internet based—but when you narrow it down the simple core facts, here’s what we get: One, you usually make friends with those you admire. Two, friends are drawn together by similar qualities and/or interests, dreams for the future, etcetra, etcetra... Three, friends respect each other—well, for the most part, I suppose. Four—and this is probably the most important, and I have no idea why the _hell_ I could’ve forgotten it—friends _trust_ each other!

Like Inigo trusted me to fill up his food bowl every day, and to move him onto a mess removable surface whenever he prepared to hack up a hairball. How else do you expect someone to spill their deepest, darkest secrets without some foundation of trust? And, I knew that in theory, in order for trust to be present, it has to be _earned_...but _how_ to do it? Well, now... _that_ was a damn good question.

More ‘research’ would be required...

And so that is how I found myself to be interrogating Dudley Dursley one fine summer’s day—okay, screw that. It was hot as _balls_ outside, and everyone knew it. Nobody who could help it was outdoors, and use of hosepipes had been banned by the HOA due to the full blown drought that had Surrey gripped in its flaming chokehold. Jonah was heartbroken about not being able to wash his car and had taken to going out at four A.M. in the morning to do it anyway. But apparently Mr. Dursley had spotted him at it, and sparked a full blown english ‘row’ every now and again. And while Mr. Dursley would holler threats to tattle and get him fined, Jonah would goad the man with intelligent retorts, and I knew better than anyone else that Jonah didn’t make threats; he made promises.

From Jonah, I learned the finer points of scaring the living shit out of people. First rule of thumb? Don’t make empty threats. If you’re going to do something, fucking do it, don’t just _say_ you’re going to do it. Actions speak louder than words. Tis a solemn fact. Second, don’t back down. Ever. You show a second of weakness, and they walk all over you. In other words? Just be a badass mother fucker. People don’t mess with badass mother fuckers. Just look at Chuck Norris. And Jonah was like the mini-me version. He even had some formal martial arts training from his marine days, not to mention P.O.W training, and much, much more… Geez, I sound like I’m advertising G.I. Joe or something…go figure.

“They at it again?” Mom sighed, leaning over slightly to look out the window at the current neighborly spat.

“Yup,” I confirmed, watching the timer on the oven like a hawk. I learned from Harry that food was Dudley’s weakness. It’s sorry he let it slip...well, not for me that is. Lucky I just happen to be an _excellent_ baker, and Mom was there to help out too because even though she complained about Jonah and Mr. Dursley fighting all the time, she and Petunia Dursley were in their own little war at the moment… The neighborhood bake sale was coming up. It also served as a bit of a contest between all the participants (mostly housewives), and members of the HOA would stand judge.

Mom was making Snickerdoodles—her specialty. When I was in elementary school, still trying my very best to survive second grade with Mrs. Grimm breathing down my neck like some demented hag, and meet _one_ person I could call a friend—an ally of _some_ kind at least—Mom helped me bake Snickerdoodles for my entire class as a birthday thing...though we ended up doubling the recipe too many times and ended up with over _two hundred_ cookies. I think Mom was trying to recreate that memory...or at least the results of it. I think she was looking forward to the look on Petunia’s pinched, stuck-up face. They were some pretty damned good cookies, after all.

But apparently, in the U.K. they were called something else because when I asked Dudley if he wanted a ‘cookie,’ he just looked at me stupid for a second and said, “...Wha?” It wasn’t until I held the plastic baggie up in his face that a look of realization came about him and exclaimed, “Oh! You mean biscuits. Americans have weird names for things. You’re all weird over there.”

“You mean us across the street, or us across the Atlantic?” I specified dryly, observing the way his slack face made him look dumber than he was. “Either way, I’m not going to argue with you. Let’s walk, shall we?” I tossed him the bag of Snickerdoodles.

Even Dudley could see a bribe when it was thrown in his face. He wasn’t _that_ stupid. But he took the bait with a suspicious sniff. “These aren’t poisoned, are they?”

I sent him an incredulous look back over my shoulder at him. “Dudley, why in god’s name would I want to poison you? I hardly _know_ you. Which is just the problem. We’re neighbors! It’s unacceptable for neighbors to know so little of each other, don’t you agree?”

“It’s just that Mum’s been spying—” He cut himself off sharply, “Er...I mean…” He shook his head as if the effort it took to be subtle about his Mom’s habit of straining her neck to look into her neighbors’ windows was too much trouble, and simply rephrased, “Mum mentioned your mum is going to be in that girly bake sale thing...”

I arched a brow at him, as if I _didn’t_ know a thing about all the horrible rumors Petunia spread about my mom. “And...you think that my Mom would try and poison half the neighborhood... _why_ again?” I paused thoughtfully, “I’m fairly sure that would involve the police, and lots, and _lots_ of money on a very expensive lawyer, so I’m not sure if it would be quite worth it. Better to go for a more subtle approach if you want to murder people, I’d think,” then asked again, smirking, “Don’t you agree?”

He laughed because he thought I was kidding. “Er, yeah! Like beating them with a baseball bat or something!”

“Not so sure about your idea of _subtlety_ , but, uh...yeah, sure, Dud, whatever floats your boat.” But I hadn’t taken time out of my still _very_ busy ‘Potter Stalker’ schedule to discuss the finer points of murder with a boy that could barely spell his own name. Say something relatable! “So, uh, seen you around at the boxing gym. My Stepdad is making me get into shape. You?”

“Yeah. Same here,” he pulled a face, shoving a Snickerdoodle into it, then talking through the crumbs, “It’s a waste of time, but at least I’m learning something useful, unlike maths, and the other stupid stuff they make us do at school. You any good at the gym?”

“Not yet…” I tilted my head thoughtfully. Maybe the idiot wasn’t as much of an idiot as I’d thought. “But I guess it _is_ pretty damned useful being able to defend yourself.” I had a feeling Dudley didn’t use it so much to _defend_ himself if seeing the reaction from most of the smaller boys we passed occasionally on the street—duck and cover—indicated anything about it.

“Specially for a girl.” He looked me up and down appreciatively. “I don’t know any girls who can handle themselves fight.” Psh. Hardly. “You’re alright. Even if you _do_ hang out with _Potter_...” He scowled at the name as if it were some sort of curse.

But it just so happened that I was waiting for the right opportunity to bring him up. “Yeah, what’s up with him anyway? He’s kind of a weirdo.” But we’ve already established that I _like_ weirdoes.

“You’re telling me.” Dudley rolled his eyes, shoving another Snickerdoodle in his mouth. “I have to _live_ with him. You wouldn’t even _believe_ all the madness we’ve been through ‘cause of him.”

I sent him a falsely sympathetic look. “I heard about the boa constrictor...”

“That’s not even the _half_ of it!” He ranted, crumbs flying out of his mouth with the exertion. “His friends are even worse. They blew up our fireplace once! Sure, it’s kind of funny to watch Mum and Dad go nuts on him when he does something strange, but _I_ have to put up with it too!” He said the next part slowly, enunciating each syllable for emphasis, “ _He’s got an owl in his bedroom_!”

I looked at him strangely. “ _An_ _owl_?”

“A ruddy _owl_ —these are good, by the way,” he confirmed, reaching for another cookie. Good thing I brought a lot. But then he lowered his voice and conveyed, “And another time, when I got up in the middle of the night to use the toilet, I heard this _moaning_ coming from behind his door…” then he changed his voice to a high pitched, mocking tone, “ _Cedric! Noo! Don’t kill Cedric! Kill me instead!_ Who the bloody hell is Cedric? ‘As what I’d like to know. On second thought—” he changed his mind after a moment of deliberating his tenth Snickerdoodle, “No. I really don’t think I do.” And, once again, he shoved it into his face.

“Hmm...interesting.” I pondered to myself quietly as he went on and on. And as Dudley continued to spill his guts over Snickerdoodles—it’s like they had some sort of truth serum in them—things certainly got a lot more interesting… But the more I learned, the more questions I had. There was a root to all this strangeness, _that_ I was sure of. It’s just that I was even more sure Dudley knew not to bring it up; It’s more like he unconsciously blocked it out or something. So all in all, the confrontation just proved to make me even more curious than I was in the beginning.

“Hey.” Dudley stopped dead once the cookies ran out. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Really? Enlighten me, Dudley.” I raised both brows at him. “What _exactly_ am I doing?”

He pointed an accusatory sausage finger at me. “The biscuits...you bribed me!”

“Well,” I remarked dryly, an amused smirk dancing on my lips, “if that _was_ what I was doing, it certainly _worked_ , didn’t it?”

“That was a dirty trick.” He sent me a dark look.

“Well, it was a delicious one at the very least.” I grinned at him brightly.

“What do you want with Potter, anyway? He’s a…” he cut himself off, and settled with, “...a _freak_.” I wondered what he was planning on calling him in the beginning.

I took a leaf out of my old shrink’s book and asked him in a very faux-sympathetic tone, “And how does that make you _feel_ , Dudley? Is there a specific _reason_ you think he’s a ‘freak?’ I’d really like to know.”

Again, he gave me that dark look and...something in his voice changed, “Just keep away from him if you know what’s good for you. If you keep digging into this, something _bad_ will happen to you. Mark my words.”

I raised my brows at him again and questioned him innocently, “Is that a _threat_?”

He let out a frustrated, “ _No_! Just…” Then his eyes took in the sight of the empty Snickerdoodle baggie clutched in his hand. “...Listen. You seem like a nice person. I’d hate to see you get hurt because of Potter’s freaky mental issues.”

So he was a mental case? He didn’t seem cognitively impaired to me… And if he meant insane, then we were sort of in the same boat, weren’t we? Been there, done that. But Dudley didn’t have to know that. I shrugged. “Okay. I’ll stay away from him...for today.” Not like I could find him, even if I tried to. Once Harry got going, you’d have better be with him, or you’d just be running around in circles like I had been for the better part of a week before the window breaking incident where we became friends—sort of. “Mind if I hang out with you then?”

I honestly had nothing better to do, and again, no friends unless you counted Potter. ‘Sides, there’s a reason they say ‘choose your friends wisely,’ and I knew from experience that it paid to have a friend that everyone else was afraid of, which I had a feeling was right up Dudley’s alley. He was built like an American football player, and once you got past the _stupid_ , there was an impressively inherent ‘meanness’ that I would probably do well to have on my side. It’s like he had B-U-L-L-Y tattooed across his forehead. And it’s always good to have a bully in your pocket.

He seemed hesitant at first, but then he remembered the empty cookie bag in his hand and he said, “Er...sure. Got any more of those...what’d’you call ‘em again?”

“Snickerdoodles.” I repeated with a straight face.

I couldn’t blame him for laughing. It was a pretty damned funny name for a cookie. Most likely part of the New England tradition of whimsical names for such things. But, funny name or not, still didn’t change the fact they were nuckin’ futs yummy. Mom seemed happy I’d made another ‘friend’ and let us take as many as we wanted for Dudley and his little gang—consisting of more big, burly boys of the names Piers, rat-faced and ugly, Denis, even more ugly, Gordon, blonde and ruddy faced, and Macolm, whose curly, dirty blonde hair leaked out from under a blue, fitted cap. I’d never been great friends with girls. Girls were usually smarter, fickle, petty, and much trickier to manipulate onto your side. And all the dramatics made me want to hurl. Seriously, if your boyfriend dumps you, just throw him the finger and say, screw ‘em, I’m going to go fuck his best friend. And he can just suck on _that_.

I thought it was kind of stupid that they thought it was fun to beat up on scrawny little kids though. Didn’t they care for any semblance of a challenge? I kind of just stood over to the side and watched the show while chewing on my Snickerdoodle. To be honest, it wasn’t much of one.

“This is boring,” I finally admitted.

“Says you,” Piers sneered, “I don’t see you doing any of the heavy lifting. Didn’t even lift a _finger_. You sure she’s in boxing with you, Dud?”

I sneered back dryly before he could answer, “Funny. I didn’t really see you doing any heavy lifting either. You kind of just stood there and held the little guy’s arms behind his back while Dudley wailed on him. _Dud’s_ the one who should be complaining, not _you_.”

“Ohhhh!” The other four drawled out exaggeratedly at the ‘burn’ and Piers glared at me.

He finally turned to Dudley and grated out, “Where’d you even pick this bitch up anyway? She’s not even your _type_.”

I couldn’t help but let out a snort. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to steal your boyfriend. He’s all yours pal.”

And that was the extent of the relationship between Piers and I. The two of us traded barbs on the way home while the rest roared with laughter the more intense they got. They stopped us when the insults turned to our mothers though, and held us back before it came to blows. All in good fun though, all in good fun… And then they started talking about beating up on little kids again and I got bored, lagging behind the little posse that insisted on being called a _gang_. Yeah, right...if these schmucks ever saw what the bad side of Baltimore looked like they’d—using the very British term—thoroughly soil their knickers… If I ever ended up being as stupid as them, I’d kick my own ass.

Therefore, it was a much needed relief, and perhaps a very good stroke of luck that I saw Harry toiling away behind another newspaper at the now ruined swing set—the gang’s doing—we’d once sat at together. It was something he obsessed over, the news. He came over every morning to watch it on our television because apparently the Dursleys didn’t find it proper for a young, upstanding boy such as himself to give a mighty flying fuck about what was going on. To tell the truth, I sort of agreed with them. After all, I hardly gave a normal, earthbound fuck about it myself...but to each his own, I supposed. Gave me more chances to riddle answers out of him anyway, and besides, it gave me a reason to wake up every morning. Otherwise, I’d probably just sleep ‘till noon and hole myself up in my room and listen to grunge and electronica until my eardrums popped. Therefore I was thankful for Harry’s obsessive addiction to news watching. Not to mention, I learned something new every day.

Actually… all joking aside, I was truly, well... _happy_...for the first time in a long time. He would come over and motivate me to look out the window for once; it made me feel like a part of the world instead of just being the one who plugged her ears and eyes, shuttered the blinds, and pretended it didn’t exist as it passed her by. Or at least Harry _treated_ me like I was part of it. There were moments when he would say something thought provoking, and I didn’t feel so jaded anymore. Not a lot of people could do that.

To put it simply, the thought of him made me smile, and this stalking thing? Wasn’t so much a stalking thing anymore. I wanted to know who he was—who he _really_ was. Really, it pretty much eliminated all the information in my head, and narrowed it down to one single question. Who are you? But I had a feeling that if I just up and said it to his face he’d probably just give me some bullshit answer like, ‘ _Why, I’m Harry Potter. We’ve already met._ ’ Or probably something more witty and sarcastic, knowing him. You ask a stupid question, you get a stupid answer...but it wasn’t a stupid question, really.

He seemed honestly surprised to find me staring at him when he finally looked up from his day old newspaper. “Amy. Er...hello?” and when I didn’t return his greeting he continued awkwardly, “Why’re you staring at me like you want to eat me?”

I stifled the part of me that wanted to laugh at his joke and furrowed my brow in concentration, answering honestly for lack of anything smart to return with, “I’m trying to figure out who you are, but you’re not making it easy. It’s like trying to grab a fish with your bare hands...you’re _slippery_.”

“...Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in the ‘you not wanting to eat me’ theory,” he responded awkwardly again, dodging the subject like a flying knife. I wasn’t having it this time.

Rolling my eyes I turned on my heel stalking away from him with a very clever, “Whatever,” but then stopped, turning back around and narrowing my eyes at him punitively. “I _am_ going to find out, you know. Whether _you’re_ the one to tell me or not.”

“And that’s why you were hanging around Dudley all day, I take it.” He stood up from the swing set, walking towards me, his vibrant eyes darkening in a way I didn’t like. It seemed I’d caught him in a bit of a bad mood. “Couldn’t be for the intellectual challenge, could it?”

“Well…” I took a step back, a hint of nervousness creeping up my spine. “once you get past the beating up little kids part and the lack of any functioning grey matter, he’s really not _so_ bad.”

His eyes darkened even more as he noticed ‘the gang’ strolling on up the street, laughing about something—probably poor little Mark Evans. I felt bad about not helping him, but it’d ruin my rep with ‘the gang,’ and...nah, that wasn’t even an excuse. They were all a bunch of—to put it in British terms—smarmy gits. I just didn’t want to be the one on the other side of the fence like our unfortunate friend Mark.

“Good then,” Harry interrupted my self-deprecating thoughts with a callous tone, “You should go be ‘friends’ with them. It’ll probably be better for you.”

And that set me off. “Who are you to decide what’s better for me?! You _or_ Dudley! What are you trying to scare me away from?” and when he didn’t answer I exclaimed, “Sure, maybe it’d help me out being friends with the neighborhood bully. So what? I don’t _want_ to be friends with them because I want to be friends with _you_! There, I said it. Are you happy now?” Again, he didn’t answer, and there was a moment in which I attempted to reel in my emotions, succeeded, and then sent a disgusted glance back over my shoulder at the fading laughter of ‘the gang.’ I shook my head with a sigh, and reached out to grab his wrist. “Come on. Didn’t I hear your Uncle squawking about how he’d lock you in the shed or something if you got home after Dudley again? I won’t be able to save you this time, you know.”

He didn’t protest, but just let out a depressed sounding sigh as I dragged him along. “Yeah...I know. You can let go. I’m not going anywhere.”

“ _Good_.” I sent him a look, releasing him as we followed a safe distance away from the gang. “Because if you _do_ , I’m going after you, and I’m not going to be _happy_ about it, got it?”

“Yeah.” A hint of bitter amusement in his voice this time. “Got it.”

I glared at him. “You’re really in a _wonderful_ mood tonight, aren’t you?”

“Good of you to have noticed.”

“Jerk,” I grumbled.

“Twat,” He returned.

“You know it,” I agreed with a snort, and then elbowed him as I spotted just the hint of a smile, “Ha. You’re not in that bad of a mood. I can still get a laugh out of you yet. Just you wait, Potter.”

“We’ll see about that, Smith…” He replied dubiously as he eyed the group ahead with distaste.

We caught up when the goons were saying their goodbyes and Malcolm was saying something along the lines of: “....Squealed like a pig, didn’t he?” The others laughed stupidly.

“Nice right hook, Big D,” said Piers.

“Same time tomorrow?” said Dudley.

“Round at my place, my parents are out,” said Gordon, and he smirked a little, “Bring that biscuit girl, and I’ll see if I can’t break into my dad’s liquor cabinet.” I’d had a feeling that one was trouble. I made a note to myself never to be alone with him. Ever.

“Maybe. I’ll ask her. See you then,” said Dudley.

“Bye, Dud!”

“See ya, Big D!”

Harry and I waited until they’d left before we caught up with Dudley, at which point his green eyes darkened again, and he called out, “Hey, Big D!”

Dudley turned, as if expecting either Piers or Gordon to have forgotten something, but his face soured as soon as he took in the form of Harry, and then me. Ignoring his cousin, he grumbled at me, “So _that’s_ where you went off to. I thought you promised to stay away from him...”

I crossed my arms, Harry and I matching pace on either side of him. “Unless you have me sign a contract in blood, don’t expect me to make good on my promises. Besides, my exact words were ‘I’ll stay away from him for _today_ ,’ and in case you haven’t noticed, it’s not daytime anymore, Genius.”

He rolled his eyes, grunting, “It’s _your_ funeral...”

“So, how long have you been Big D?” Harry brought up in a conversational tone, even though I could tell he was just trying to get a rise out of him for some reason. Blowing off steam? Looking for a fight? Sometimes I just didn’t get guys.

“Shut it,” was Dudley’s clever response, and he sped up his pace. Obviously getting a rise out of Dudley wasn’t too difficult of a task.

“Yeah Harry, shut it,” I mimicked him, sending the volatile boy a warning glance, “Wouldn’t want to upset anyone...would we?”

He sent me a vindictive grin in return that said, ‘ _Oh yes. Yes, that sounds like a_ lovely _idea._ ’

“Cool name,” He continued, blatantly ignoring the friendly advice, grinning wider, and falling back into step beside his cousin, “but you’ll always be Ickle Diddykins to me.”

I ignored my own advice too—despite my internal self-preservation meter going off—and couldn’t help but let out a snort. “Ickle _what_?”

“It’s what his Mum calls him, didn’t you know?” He explained, snickering, and asked an increasingly growing irate Dudley with faux-innocence in his voice, “Don’t the _boys_ know about that?”

“Shut. Your. Face.” Dudley grated out angrily. Interesting that his responses seemed to be turning repetitive. Strangely...it was like he was restraining himself. But the Dudley _I’d_ gotten to know wouldn’t hesitate to knock Harry’s lights out. This one seemed...afraid. Of a gangly—admittedly geeky looking—guy with glasses no less. Dudley was acting strange, and sending glances at me every few seconds as if trying to tell me something.

“You don’t tell _her_ to shut her face.” Harry pointed out Dudley’s mom. “What about ‘popkin’ and ‘Dinky Diddydums,’ can I use them then?”

Dudley didn’t respond, and I actually felt a little bad for him. So I went to say, “My mom used to call me names too. ‘Cept they were more things like ‘Little Bugg,’ and ‘Booger.’ She’s planning on calling my little brother ‘Stinky’ when he’s born, cause you know how babies reek to high heaven, and—” They were both staring at me. “...What?”

Dudley was the first to declare the painfully obvious, “Your mum is _weird_...”

“Way to go, Jedi Master. You just read everyone’s mind.” I rolled my eyes.

“I think she’s brilliant,” Harry countered, suddenly serious.

“Well, uh...thanks Harry,” I replied carefully, “I’ll make sure to tell her you said so. She’ll probably bake you a cake with all her slobber in it.”

“My birthday’s in a couple weeks,” he informed me, “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Dudley was staring at us both like a couple of aliens and I kindly informed him, “Inside joke. There’s no actual slobber involved...at least I don’t think there is...I really hope there isn’t...” I trailed off uncertainly, and I don’t think it made Dudley feel any better about the Snickerdoodles he’d been chowing down on all that evening.

“So, who’ve you been beating up tonight?” Harry—momentary distraction over—started in on Dudley again. You had to hand it to him, the kid was focused. “Another ten-year-old? I know you did Mark Evans two nights ago—”

“That’s the one,” I confirmed with a nod, and Dudley sent me a look of betrayal.

“He was _asking_ for it,” he snarled back, and jerked his thumb at me, “and _she_ helped!”

“Oh no I did _not_!” I retorted affrontedly, but sobered as I admitted the truth, “I just watched…”

“So you just stood there while a ten-year-old was getting beat up?” Harry sent me an incredulous look.

“Well...yeah…” I shrugged uncomfortably, unhappy with myself. “I feel bad about it.”

“Imagine how bad Mark feels about it right now,” he challenged back.

“Probably worse.” I avoided his eyes. “But, you know what they say about bullying and character building. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger…?” It was a weak excuse, and we both knew it. I _had_ no excuse. This is why you hang around people you admire...so you don’t act like the people you don’t.

“He _cheeked_ me,” Dudley emphasized, as if it was the perfect excuse to hang someone from their underwear.

“Yeah?” Harry ripped into him again. “Did he say you look like a pig that’s been taught to walk on its hind legs? ’Cause that’s not cheek, Dud, that’s true . . .”

I raised both my brows, _harsh_...but then again, I couldn’t talk because I didn’t want to set Harry off either. _Rather you than me, Dud._ He could face Harry’s snarky wrath. I was honestly a little afraid of it. It just seemed to piss Dudley off.

We turned into a narrow alley that was close to the one where I broke the window and first talked to Harry, however, this one was not a dead end and served as a shortcut onto the other street. I always thought it was a little creepy and avoided using it, but since I had the two boys with me, I wasn’t really too spooked. Funny how your courage can increase the more people are with you. I wondered what it would be like if all the people around you were really just as scared as you inside and nobody knew it.

Dudley, seeming to have reached the point of ‘fuck it, I don’t even care anymore,’ sent a sidelong glance at me, then Harry after a few seconds and shot at him, “Think you’re a big man, carrying that _thing_ , do you?”

I stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Do you have any idea how many innuendos I could fabricate at this very moment? I don’t even know where to start—”

“Shut up. You’re the one who’s digging for answers, right? You want answers?” Dudley glared at me, then back at Harry. “Answer the question, Freak.”

Harry had gone quite still. “...What _thing_?”

“That—” Dudley paused, searching for words, but apparently couldn’t come up with anything more articulate than, “That _thing_ you’re hiding.”

“Can you both _please_ stop saying ‘ _thing_ ’—”

“Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud?” Harry sent him a tightly controlled grin, intent on Dudley, not seeing me, “Then I s’pose if you were, you wouldn’t be able to walk and talk at the same time….”

He pulled out a long, thin rod of wood, seemingly from out of his pocket, and Dudley glanced sideways at it. “You’re not allowed.” There was a hitch in his voice. “I know you’re not. You’ll get expelled from that Freak school of yours.”

I stared at them both strangely. “Guys. What the hell.”

“ _Hush it_ ,” Dudley hissed at me.

“How do you know they haven’t changed the rules, Big D?” Harry was focused on his cousin, still, seemingly, trying to get a rise out of him. Apparently it was working, because Dudley was slowly but surely losing the color in his face, and his breath was hitching in his throat. He was evidently afraid of the ‘stick.’ What Harry was actually planning on _doing_ with it, I had _no_ idea, but I was torn between an odd urge to laugh, and ask, once again, what the _hell_ was going on.

“They haven’t.” Dudley tried to speak firmly, as if trying to convince himself as much, but his countenance revealed otherwise. Dudley was all but metaphorically shivering in his boots. Harry laughed softly, and in that moment...I was a little scared of him too. But then Dudley got angry and snarled, “You haven’t got the guts to take me on without that thing, have you?”

“Whereas you just need four mates behind you before you can beat up a ten-year-old,” Harry returned condescendingly. “You know that boxing title you keep banging on about? How old was your opponent? Seven? Eight?”

“He was _sixteen_ for your information,” Dudley grated out, and even I had to admit it sounded like bologna, “and he was out cold for twenty minutes after _I’d_ finished with him and he was _twice_ as heavy as you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had that _thing_ out—”

“Running to Daddy now, are you?” Harry interrupted. He seemed to have forgotten I existed, so focused was he on tormenting Dudley. “Is his ickle boxing champ frightened of nasty Harry’s wand?”

_Wand_? I mouthed, _What the_... _I don’t even_...

“Not this brave at night, are you?” Dudley was grasping for straws he was so terrified.

“This _is_ night, Diddykins,” Harry pointed out, “That’s what we call it when it goes all dark like this.”

“I mean when you’re in bed!” I would’ve laughed were the tension not running so high.

“What d’you mean, I’m not brave in bed?” Apparently Harry was stumped too, and I really _did_ have to resist the urge to laugh this time. “What—am I supposed to be frightened of pillows or something?”

“I heard you last night,” Dudley insisted, “talking in your sleep. _Moaning_.”

“What d’you mean?” Harry said again quickly, going still once more.

Dudley, feeling braver at Harry’s discomfort, took on the same mocking tone as when he’d done with me, “‘Don’t kill Cedric! Don’t kill Cedric!’ Who’s Cedric—your boyfriend?”

But at a careful look at Harry’s face, I had a feeling that, no, he wasn’t Harry’s boyfriend. This Cedric had probably once been Harry’s _best_ friend, or something similar. And with that conclusion, I told Dudley firmly, “Stop it. Can’t you see it’s upsetting him? You don’t insult the dead. That’s just wrong, Dudley. Beat up as many ten-year-olds as you want, I’ve no room talk, but don’t speak ill of the—”

“You’re not my _Mum_. Don’t tell me what to do,” he sneered at me, and continued to taunt Harry, “‘Dad! Help me, Dad! He’s going to kill me, Dad! Boo-hoo!’”

“Shut up,” Harry whispered, then repeated more forcefully, “shut up, Dudley, I’m warning you!”

“‘Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me! He’s killed Cedric! Dad, help me! He’s going to—’”

“Dudley, _stop_!” My eyes widened and I slapped him on the arm. Hadn’t Harry said his parents were _dead_? I hadn’t imagined even _Dudley_ was capable of going that low. “You can’t just—” And then he shoved me back, sending me sprawling awkwardly onto my—to use the British term—arse. A sharp pain erupted up my ankle, and, crying out, I knew I’d sprained it—maybe a torn ligament or two. For the first time I fully comprehended how appallingly clumsy I really was. Sure, I’d gotten a glimpse of it in boxing classes, but it isn’t until someone shoves you sideways, and you nearly break a bone because you can’t take a simple fall right, that it _truly_ dawns on you: _I’m a grade-A klutz_.

“I _said_ don’t tell me what to— _Don’t you point that thing at me!_ ”

I watched from the ground as Harry backed Dudley into the alley wall, his ‘wand’ pointed directly at the other boy’s heart. His eyes were flashing, and he looked positively terrifying, even if he did only have a ‘stick’ for a weapon...though I had reason to believe that both of them thought it would _zap_ things... Maybe they were _both_ crazy. In this neighborhood? Who knew?

“Don’t touch her, and don’t ever talk about that again,” Harry snarled at him, “D’you understand me?”

Dudley wasn’t listening, eyes focused on ‘the wand.’ “Point that thing somewhere else!”

“I said, _do you understand me?_ ”

“ _Point it somewhere else!_ ”

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”

“GET THAT THING AWAY FROM—” He broke off with an odd, shuddering gasp.

I felt it too.

We all did.

And then the lights went out.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love it if you could tell me your thoughts. I'm always trying to improve my writing.


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